


Where Is Your God?

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:54:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4351403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the shittiest chain of events he’s ever faced in life, thus far.</p><p>In which Dean is stuck in a spot of trouble, and the one person he wants to see least, comes across him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Is Your God?

Dean has never been through a heat in his life.

Barely had the chance to understand what, ‘omega, bitch and uncontrollable heat’ meant before it was taken away from him.

John had forcibly sterilized him at fourteen when he had presented, the clean, breezy scent of un-sexed youth giving way to the clearer, sweeter scent of newly declared omega.

His skin had remained taut on his bones, and he remembered, distinctly, how sharp Sammy smelled, like home and prepubescent boy. All carnivorous hands and attentive eyes (Sammy was fascinated in every fucking thing, all the time), scent-marking Dean for fun, running his little nose up and down Dean’s neck, cause Dean smelled like “berries and spring Dean, like candy.”

It had hurt.

Hurt his sex like so many knives clawing their way up the mountain of his womb.

He’d wept a lot, after that.

Then, all his energy had turned to hunting. To killing spirit after spirit, demon after demon, idly cogitating the idea of turning to a crossroads demon just to give him back some semblance of a _choice._

Sammy had presented four years later, fourteen and lanky, like a puppy in that his hands and feet were too excessive for slender wrists and ankles. He’d be a monster when he grew into himself.

Dean retained his sense of smell, as all wolves did, and he could smell the second Sammy declared, smell the instant _little brother_ gave way to _alpha wolf_ , in all its terrible finality. Sammy smelled like something he wanted to run from.

Forest pines and sunshine, and later, the smell would morph into the Fourth of July.

Which brings Dean to the present day.

Where he’s twenty six years old, kneeling on the wet ground in a back alley in Palo Alto, his ass sopping wet and mournfully twitching, all slowly realizing that it wasn’t a falsehood, he apparently _can_ go into heat, and his body is choosing to do so right _now_.

He bangs his head back against the brick wall and the pain sharpens his senses enough for him to think. He’s here because Dad’s missing. Dad hasn’t come home, hasn’t called, hasn’t left him a trace of anything, as far as Dean’s aware.

But because John Winchester is a stand up guy, and he loves giving his kids mysteries that they didn’t know they needed to uncover until it was too late, he leaves Dean a note.

A note Dean only finds because he’s tearing apart the Impala for his dad’s old burner phones...something John apparently already knew his oldest would do.

“Dean,” the note begins, and Dean can hear his father’s whiskey rough voice. “Dean, as you probably already know, or are shortly about to find out, I didn’t have you permanently sterilized when you presented as ‘mega. Long story short, boy, I forestalled your heats. Ability to get pregnant. Kind of froze you in time. Tricky procedure, takes a bit of magic. Bobby knows a guy. Wasn’t safe to have you bitching out every month, not when I needed you most. And you were always so damn ruthless at this job. Didn’t want to waste you. Anyway, like all magic, this one comes with a time frame. Which, should be ending at some point this month.”

Dean can’t tell if the cold spot in his heart is rage or fear.

“Now don’t waste your time feeling sorry for your ass. Pull it together and handle it. I’ll be in touch.”

Dean turned the letter over in his hand. Not a new letter then. But folded in miniscule pieces, as if it had been carried around in a wallet for years. Tucked into the smallest corner of Dean’s glove compartment. What if Dean had overlooked it? Did the bastard think of that? Dean had sagged against the car, fight leached from his limbs. Dad knew him better’n that. Knew he’d find the damn thing, when it was time.

He’ll be in touch. Too bad the last time Dean checked, John was supposed to be in Jericho, investigating ten years worth of disappearing men from the same stretch of road--and now Dean’s going into the heat he should’ve had twelve years ago, all a block away from Sammy.

Samuel, the kid he’s going to drag bodily with him to fucking find Dad, just as soon as he can communicate with his legs and force them stand.

Make them realize that bending over and--unh--presenting himself on all fours isn’t the absolutely fantastic idea his libido seems to think it is.

Anddd he’s dragging himself into a standing position, aided by the wall. Entirely. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters to himself, goddamned irritated that even his voice sounds faint and breathy. How the fuck is he supposed to meet Sam like this, so weighed down and needy, slick hole and painted cheeks?

Dean’s suddenly prasin’ every god he can think of that his little brother can’t see him like this. Didn’t see him for the first time in four years looking like a damned bitch.

And of course, as luck, Dean Winchester’s luck, specifically, would have it, he smells an Alpha passing by his hiding (resting, fucking resting) spot, whistling slightly drunkenly, voice mingling with that of a girl. Beta, he thinks he smells. Can’t really ascertain, seeing as his own damn slick diffuses the air around him.

He can hear them talking, can’t really make out much, except for ‘home’, and one moderately loud exclamation of ‘fuck.’ Dean can’t understand why his traitorous body is reacting to this one Alpha’s lone baritone. Shit, Dean’s _easy_ , that’s what this is. Quick pick me up in the back of the bar. Dean thinks he might like to be man-handled, pressed against a wall and held up til he’s knotted securely, only pleasure in life is hanging off his Alpha’s fat knot--

Dean wills his overheated body back into the shadows. The scent is wafting this way, and for the love of God he can’t explain why the fuck he thinks this Alpha smells like firecrackers--

and then the entire alley is silent, the scent of the Beta is gone and so is the Alpha’s--until it’s back and more pungent than before.

Anddd he’s down on his knees again. Fucking trembling. This is the shittiest chain of events he’s ever faced in life thus far.

Can’t get much better.

Hopes he can fend off rape, if this Alpha’s anything like the rest of them, he won’t be able to control the urge to _mountfuckbreed_

Right up until he looks up and several things click at once. This scent smells like home.

“Dean.” The face breathes, incisors lengthening with the word.

Dean was wrong. He’s fucked.

And not even in the way he wants, either.


End file.
